Salt
by Gevurah
Summary: Destiny is no matter of chance. It is a matter of choice. Story temporarily on hold until revisions are complete.
1. Chapter 1

**Salt**  
_A Story by Gevurah_

_Destiny is no matter of chance. It is a matter of choice._

The day that young Rachel Van der Berg wed Thomas Hughes in the church of Cockburn Town dawned bright and clear, but by midday, a thick, unforgiving haze obscured the Caribbean sun as the humid breath of summer pressed close. Too close perhaps. The heat, trapped by the solid walls of the church, gathered beneath the rafters and slowly grew, creeping downwards until even the marble statues that lined the nave felt warm to the touch. The wedding goers withered amid their silken finery and fanned their flushed faces, desperate for any breath of air denied to them by the house of God. Nor was it the fate of the attendees to suffer alone: the minister's plump face was fiery red with heat blush and beneath her many veils of lace and pearls, the bride sweltered in silence. Even the normally impassive groom shifted from one foot to the other and fingered his starched collar restlessly.

Standing dutifully beside her father and her fan beating steadily, Blanche struggled to maintain her courtly composure. It was most difficult. She could feel the perspiration accumulate upon her brow, between her breasts and along her spine, the latter of which dampened her chemise and threatened to do the same to her pale silk gown. While she dared not fidget, she braved a glance to her father's face; but John Hughes was more intent on her brother's nuptials than her suffering manners.

Her betrothed, however, did notice her flickering gaze and frowned at her wavering attention, his eyes were dark with disapproval. Quickly, Blanche returned her attention to the couple as they exchanged their wedding rings and breathed a silent sigh of relief when the ceremony was finally complete. It was something of a liberation to have seen her elder brother wed at last, God forgive her for thinking so. Threading her arm through his when offered, Blanche and Edward fell into step behind her father and followed the newly wed couple out into the street, smiling politely as they past the others townsfolk present. A smile for Widow Patterson, a nod to Major Kensington. The actions were habitual and automatic, as instinctive as drawing breath- though of late, her smile felt forced, a most unnatural feeling.

Blanche had never been much of a carefree spirit, so it was difficult to determine exactly when her life began to feel mechanical, but the weight of it had become noticeable soon after her engagement to Edward. Instead of being escorted by her father or Thomas as she was used to, Blanche's hand now belonged with Edward's and she found that it was a difficult adjustment. Her family's physical presence had always been disinterested and aloof; in stark contrast, Edward's touch was possessive and tight. Blanche discovered that she preferred to be ignored. The discomfort that Edward inspired had planted the seed of fear within her breast on the very first night, and by the evening of their betrothal celebration, Blanche had been a bundle of fearful nerves. Fear of what, she did not know- but fear nonetheless.

Once they passed through the wide double wooden doors of the church, the stifling heat of the inside gave way to the clinging humidity of the outside, and the change was no better than the previous. Standing beside her fiancé on the steps as the rest of the wedding attendees poured forth from the church, Blanche smiled politely and nodded in turn once more, mindful of Edward's formidable solid presence at her side.

"Oh, Miss Hughes, what a _splendid_ ceremony," Miss Lawton gushed, grabbing her hand passionately, immediately upon seeing Blanche. Edward eyed the woman dolefully before politely excusing himself to talk to he elder Mr. Hughes, his lips set in a thin line of displeasure. Edward was not one for woman's talk. "I scare can _believe_ that your good brother has himself a _wife_ now," Miss Lawton continued after he had left, barely sparing the man a second glance. Men with such a small use for words, such as he, held little fascination with Miss Lawton. "Why, I can recall when Thomas was just a little lad, and you!" Miss Lawton paused, clapping her hands together joyfully, no doubt recalling an obscure memory. "You were the _epitome_ of grace even as a _child_! I _so_ look forward to _your_ wedding, Miss Hughes. I can _hardly_ contain myself!"

Blanche let her go on, smiling stiffly and saying nothing. Miss Lucy Lawton was the daughter of Sir Jeffory Lawton; and at thirty-six, she was an unforgivably old maid with an unstoppable tongue. All the men of society avoided the poor woman and, frankly, most of women did as well. Rumor had it that Miss Lawton was once engaged to a Navy captain when she was only seventeen, but lost him tragically to the sea the very next year after. She had been devastated and never remarried- or rather, married at all. In some ways, Blanche supposed, Miss Lawton was better than she. Though Blanche's salt-merchant father was infinitely more wealthy than the Lawton's, Lucy Lawton had been firmly engaged at seventeen, whereas Blanche was now twenty and had only just been promised to Edward. No doubt Lucy Lawton must have been very pretty in her youth.

"Thank you, Miss Lawton," Blanche said, extracting her hand from the older woman's grasp, "I hope you'll be joining the celebrations this evening."

The older woman giggled girlishly. "Oh, _Miss Hughes_, you _do_ flatter me!"

"Oh, Blanche," a husky voice said after Miss Lawton had hastily excused herself upon spying the Lady Cantillo, "sometimes I wonder why you're so sweet to that old ninny."

Blanche hid her chuckle behind her fan. "My dear Olivia," she said, watching as the beautiful young woman smiled flirtatiously at passing Captain Howe. "I was taught to respect my elders."

Olivia rolled her eyes heavenward and fluttered her fan. "Perhaps to those who deserve our respect, but Lucy Lawton, my dear?" She smirked. "That woman wouldn't know her own bottom from a sack of flour. She's a thoroughly pathetic soul- oh! Captain Howe!"

The handsome, well-dressed captain bowed briefly before flashing the pair a brilliant grin. "Mrs. Mayfair! You look absolutely riveting this afternoon!" The dashing captain captured her hand in a gallant kiss before turning his attention to Blanche. "And Miss Hughes, lovely as always!"

"Captain Howe, I'm so glad you could make it," Blanche said warmly, smiling at him. It was hard not to smile at the man's perpetual pleasant attitude. Captain Howe had the rare talent of always being thrilled with everyone and everything around him- even the staunch Mr. Hughes' were known to share a laugh with the amiable captain. "I'm sure my brother most appreciated it. We all know how busy your command keeps you."

"Indeed, Captain," Olivia purred, her dark eyes roaming across his decorated uniform. "Mr. Mayfair and myself have missed you dreadfully. Why, we haven't seen you in weeks." The beautiful Olivia pouted prettily. "I was beginning to think that you left Grand Turk for a more exciting island."

Captain Howe glowed. "Never!" he proclaimed. "The Turks are my home and I would never abandon them for another," the light in his eyes smoldered as he returned Olivia's gaze, "Especially when I have such outstanding patrons such as yourself and Mr. Mayfair."

"Well, we are happy to stand for you in the social circles, Captain," she said with rouged lips curving upwards into a daring smile.

The captain flushed and quickly looked away. "Pray do excuse me, ladies," he said, covering his reaction with a conspicuous cough, "while I would love to monopolize your attentions, I should greet the other guests."

Olivia's smile was one of triumph. "Of course Captain Howe," she said, "we understand completely."

He bowed stiffly. "Miss Hughes, Mrs. Mayfair," he said, excusing himself.

Olivia watched him go, a hungry look in her hazel eyes. "I do _enjoy_ that man."

Blanche only shook her head. "I don't know how you get away with such things _Mrs. Mayfair_," she said. "Doesn't your husband ever get jealous of your shameless flirting?"

"Howard?" Olivia snorted indelicately. "He's much more concerned about his precious cargo than to notice any indiscretions on my part."

"But he's your _husband_," Blanche persisted.

Olivia sighed and looped her arm through Blanche's. "My dear," she said, leaning in confidentially, "there are some things you must learn if you are to wed; and one is that your husband does not own you. He is your husband, yes, but as long as you are discreet about certain _activities_, he'll never know the difference. Besides," she said devilishly, "if he's anything like Howard, he'll care more about the account books than anything _you_ could ever say."

Blanche smiled mutely at her friend, but she knew better. Edward _would_ care, and God save her should he ever disapprove of her actions.

"Oh enough talk of that," Olivia continued, fanning her heat flushed face delicately. "What a horrible day to wed. This heat is enough to make one swear off religion altogether."

"Olivia!"

The woman smirked, but didn't defend her remark, choosing instead to study Blanche with a critical eye. "Blanche, darling, what were you thinking when you chose that dress?"

Blanche's spine stiffened. "Edward has said he likes this dress on numerous occasions."

"My dear, Edward is a man." Olivia said, pursing her lips. "Men only care about a dress's cut; they have no taste when it comes to color. Pink just doesn't suit you," she said definitively. "It washes you out, and with this heat you're just pink all over- hardly becoming."

Blanche didn't need to be told such things; she knew she was not beautiful- at least not beautiful in the way that Olivia was beautiful. With skin as fair as cream and thick auburn hair so dark it looked like blood-honey, Olivia was, by far, the loveliest woman on the island. But Blanche was given little time to remark on her friend's comment. Her fiancé appeared at her elbow and smiled emotionlessly at the two women. Edward St. Vincent was a man of many talents, and it never ceased to amaze how effortlessly he could display as few real emotions as possible. It was near inhuman.

"Ladies," he said perfunctorily, nodding at Mrs. Mayfair coolly. "We should be off, Blanche," he said, with little room for argument. "There is a storm approaching and your father wishes to be indoors." Indeed, the breeze coming from the ocean was gradually growing stronger, a true sign of weather to come.

"Of course," Blanche replied, dutifully. "Will you be coming to the party, Olivia?" she asked, closing her fan.

The other woman waved her off nonchalantly. "No, I think I'll retire for the evening. Howard hates using the carriage in the rain. He insists that his jacket smells of horse for days afterwards."

"I'll call on you tomorrow then," Blanche said as a form of farewell, feeling Edward's impatient pressure on her arm.

"Of course, dear." But Olivia's words were said to her back, as Edward was already pushing Blanche to the awaiting carriage, by which she could see her father standing anxiously. Edward smiled and nodded to those they passed and called out greeting, politely excusing their sudden departure. There were no kind smiles for Blanche, however. She supposed he didn't believe he had to flatter her any longer, seeing as how he had already secured her hand. It didn't bother her, not really.

"Where have you been, daughter?" John Hughes demanded the moment they neared.

Blanche smiled at her father and took his offered hand. "I was speaking with Mrs. Mayfair," she said as he hastily helped her ascend into the carriage.

"Speaking to Mrs. Mayfair, indeed," the elder man harrumphed, climbing in next to her. "That woman is a gossip. I don't approve of you associating with her, Blanche."

"Father, I assure you, Mrs. Mayfair is not as an intolerable as you presume," Blanche said as she rearranged her skirts carefully- all the while, appallingly mindful of Olivia's earlier comment concerning the garment's color.

"No, she's worse," Edward said as he joined them, sitting opposite her father. He quickly knocked his knuckles against the roof of the carriage and suddenly, they were off at a jolt. "Mrs. Mayfair is a catty woman of the worst sort," he declared, settling his large frame against the cushions. "She is a villainous creature and makes a cuckold of Mr. Mayfair." There was a most malicious glint in his dark eyes that made Blanche's stomach roll.

Edward St. Vincent was the largest man Blanche had ever seen, dwarfing even her lanky brother; but unlike Thomas, Edward had width to match his height. Barrel-chested and strong, his hands were large enough to encase a melon and his shoulders were as wide as a doorframe. He made Blanche feel small and delicate. That in itself was no small feat, for Blanche was as long-limbed as her brother. All arms and legs, Blanche never had to tilt her head back to see into the face of a man and more often than not, she towered above the women- Olivia Mayfair being the only exception to that rule. But then again, Olivia was an exception to most rules.

"Is that true, child?" her father asked, his tone incredulous.

"Father-"

"Don't worry, John," Edward interrupted. "Blanche will have no more to do with Mrs. Mayfair once we're wed."

Blanche closed her mouth with an affronted snap and her father positively beamed. "Well, then," he said, settling his gold-tipped cane between his knees, "that settles that. Did you speak to Major Kensington, Edward? He was telling me about a most interesting proposition."

Edward nodded. "I did. It seems as though we'll be getting some labor relief with the arrival of the negros."

Blanche frowned as their talk turned to business and turned her attentions to the window, watching as the ocean temporarily rose into view as they traveled. She could see the dark broiling clouds of the storm as it approached, though it was momentarily too far out to sea to be of much harm to the town. Soon, however, it would be hurricane season and Blanche dreaded the upcoming months. There was not much that frightened her more than one of those horrid storms. It was as if the voice of God was screaming, punishing all the souls for their sinful ways. The thought made her shiver.

"Are you cold child?" he father asked, breaking her thought. "How can you be chilled at all in this weather?"

She smiled thinly at him. "No, father- not cold. The breeze from the ocean was momentarily chilling."

"Well then close the curtains, daughter," he said impatiently, leaning across her and yanking the heavy cloth across the window roughly, abruptly cutting off her view of the horizon.

"Thank you, father," she said softly, staring at the closed curtains. It was hot in the carriage. An irrational fear of being trapped suddenly constricted her throat and Blanche clutched her fan in her lap desperately, willing it away.

With the curtains closed, none of them saw the black-sailed ship as it cut across the angry waves, far in the distance. In fact, no one at all on the island Grand Turk saw that ship.


	2. Chapter 2

It was too damn early for a storm, and Parrish knew it. July in the Caribbean was a turbulent time to be sure; but the _really_ deadly months were still to come and, God willing, by said time, the Black Pearl would be safely harbored for the duration. However, despite all evidence to the contrary, there was a devil of a tempest on their heels, snapping for all she was worth.

But the Pearl was a good lass and took advantage of the strong winds. With her sails full, she was long past stretching her legs and instead sprinted across the rising waves, with the tempest giving chase behind, scuding for all she was worth. Nay, it wasn't time to tie down just yet. Captain was the daring sort and Parrish believed Sparrow rightly enjoyed outrunning the storm. And while he trusted his Captain, and would do so 'til Kingdom come, he was growing mighty fearful as the dark thunderheads were slowly, but surely, closing the gap between storm and ship. With any luck, they'd find a nice place to tuck down soon.

_"Bloody hell!"_ Young Nott cursed beside Parrish as he fought with the flying lines.

"Careful there, lad," Parrish said, creeping sideways to stand next to the boy, his bare feet sure on the wooden jackstay. "She's a runnin'" he stated as he gave Nott a helping hand. "She don't like this squall any more than we do."

"It's bleedin' useless," Nott growled, angrily tying down the flyaway ropes. "The wind just unties them anyways!"

Parrish knew the lad was right, the billowing sails stretched and pulled at the lines like a horse on a cart, but it was no use getting oneself in a tizzy over it and he told Nott so. The only thing a body could do was stand at the ready with quick hands. When a particularly harsh gust of wind threw them forward and near off their feet, Parrish grimaced as the rough lifeline burned his hands- calluses be damned.

"You all right, lad?" he asked, righting himself; but there was no time for an answer, for the ropes were flying in the breeze again and they scrambled to catch them back. Beside him, Nott grumbled wordlessly, but managed to secure his side once more. Suddenly, there was a great _rip_ that resounded through the air despite the howling wind and the flying jib was loose, waving obscenely in the wind.

"Tie those lines down!" Anamaria bellowed from far below, dashing across the gangway and leaping over a crate in her haste to reach the torn sail.

Parrish was already moving. "Aye, ma'am!" he called, descending deftly hand over hand down a holding tie and jumping the last few feet to the deck. His bare feet slapped against the deck, nearly knocking a deckhand to the deck in his haste. Surprisingly, Parrish was the first to reach her side, though others were close behind.

"Grab that line!" she shouted at him, gesturing with her chin as she attempted to secure the mainstay.

Parrish did as told, crawling out onto the bowsprit grabbing for the length of rope that snapped in the force of the wind. He caught it nimbly, but hissed sharply when the winds tore it from his grasp, taking a goodly amount of skin with it. Another hand reached for it and Parrish shot a quick grin of thanks to George Thorn who was just behind and moved to the next, but soon discovered it to be useless endeavor. This rope was still bound to the ship, a visualization that made his stomach sink sickly. "The cringles are torn!" he shouted, reeling in the line.

She looked incredulous. "All of them?"

"No, but a goodly lot of them." Parrish looked pale and grave.

Sure enough, Anamaria could see the great rent in the midnight sail. "Curse it!" she howled, uselessly attempting to grab the torn cloth in empty air. "Curse it all to hell!" She stomped her foot in annoyance. It was bloody typical, that's what it was. "Tighten down the rest of them," she ordered, gaining her a nod from the two sailors.

As quick as a cat, Anamaria dashed aft, making for the windswept figure of Jack where he stood helm. Behind him, young Smith was at the rudder, looking green as a dog. "Lost a jib, have we?" Jack asked when she was near enough, his dark eyes unusually serious and his lips pressed into a thin line. She nodded, grimacing. "Not to worry," he said, gripping the wheel tightly when the tempest's winds would have driven them off course. "We haven't lost the outer jib- yet."

"Fat lot of good it does us," she said, scowling. "With pressure doubled, it's not going to last long in _this_," she said, gesturing the darkened clouds, which were suddenly not so far away.

Jack nodded absently and motioned her closer. "See that?" he asked when she was close enough to share his eye-line. "We'll find a nice inlet and lay in till this blasted storm passes us by."

"Grand Turk, Jack?" she questioned exasperatedly. "It's rather hard to miss," she said sarcastically. Indeed the hulking mass of the island was near enough for even the poorest sighted sailor to see the pale stretch of beach. "You can't possibly be planning-" she paused as realization sunk in. "For God's sake Jack!" she said suddenly, the words busting from her. "That's shallow water! The sand bars will run us aground! Are you out of your mind?"

Jack frowned at her tone. "Where's Gibbs?" he asked abruptly, scanning the busy crew for his portly quartermaster.

Anamaria ignored him. "This isn't sane," she said, gesturing wildly to island. "I can't believe-"

He paid no attention the slight woman. "Gibbs!" Jack shouted, the wind carrying his words.

The female pirate narrowed her eyes and glowered at him. "Mark my words, Jack Sparrow-"

"Ah, Gibbs," he said, interrupting her when the red-faced sailor finally wheezed his way up the companionway to the quarterdeck. "Have the men ready the long boats. While we're stopped, we might as well invite ourselves to dinner-" At Anamaria's audible gasp, Jack turned and gazed at her expectantly. "I'm sorry," he said innocently, "did you say something, love?"

She growled in a decisively _un_ladylike manner and shoved Gibbs aside roughly. He looked vaguely affronted by her actions, but let it be in face of her ill-temper. Thrusting her chin out, Anamaria crossed her arms across her flat chest and held her ground. "That's _my_ job, _Captain_," she said through a clenched jaw.

Jack raised an eyebrow. "Oh really?" The eyebrow rose higher, if such a physical impossibility could be believed. "So how's about you stop moaning about and get to it?" he said, trying to repress a cheeky grin and ultimately failing miserably.

Her eyes glinted angrily and she scowled, but Anamaria held her sharp tongue and turned on her heel sharply, screeching orders to the deck hands as she descended to the lower deck. "Ready the longboat!" she shouted, firmly holding onto her hat as the wind tried to nick it. "Ready the gig! Captain's orders!"

Jack watched her stomp about in a temper, sourly testing the secured lines and generally giving the lads a hard time, with a fond, twisted sort of smile on his face. "That girl's got more grit than half the men on this ship," he said absently. "Don't you think, mate?" Jack asked, turning to observe the other man.

"Aye," the older sailor agreed, running a thick hand through his unruly grey hair. "For the tiny, wiry thing that she is, that lass has got a set of lungs like an Irish banshee," he admitted, "and a scowl to match."

Jack's bark of laughter was loud enough for the woman in question to glare back at him, somehow uncannily knowing that his amusement was at her expense. "Aye, Gibbs," he said when his sudden laughter had faded, though his dark eyes danced with amusement. "I do believe you have an adequate hold on the situation."

"Captain?" Gibbs questioned hesitantly after a moment of mutely watching as Jack made a swift series of navigational corrections with the wheel. "Is there something ye needed of me?"

"No, mate," Jack said, fighting with the wheel, as the ship lurched sickly beneath them. The waves were becoming noticeably larger and, if the winds were any indication, fiercer as well. Behind them, young Smith was growing more green and his fingers were white knuckled as he clutched the wooden taffrail. If Jack noticed this, he made no mention. "But perhaps, you best get down there and help the lass out," he said, grimacing. "This is going to get rough."

The words were barely past his lips when a large swell knocked against the starboard side, giving the Pearl's deck its' first taste of seawater for the day. Gibbs quickly hurried away, intent of aiding the men that suddenly found themselves drenched. "Steady on, lads!" Jack shouted, smiling widely all the while. There was nothing in God's world that made a man feel more like a man than a storm at sea. It was so much more satisfying playing against the Almightily than playing against the Devil. Neither ever played fair, but somehow ol' Scratch never brought his blood to a boil like the other did. It might be madness, aye, but the challenge was thoroughly invigorating.

And Anamaria had been correct, it was near death to cruise this close to Grand Turk, but Jack was a good sailor and had a few cards up his sleeve. Several years back, during the near decade of being without his beloved Pearl, Jack had the fortune of meeting one Captain Francoise L'Olonnois. L'Olonnois was an arrogant man and only loved two things: his ego and his wine. As Providence would have it, the two men ended up sharing cups one night at the Maiden's Head and it was there that Jack learned the secret of entering Grand Turk.

Normally, in order to reach any of the Turks, ships had to lower anchor far from shore and row to land- a most tedious task. However, there was _one_ place on the whole of the island to harbor close to shore, L'Olonnois had confided, his eyes bright and breath stinking of cheap wine. No one knew about it and only the best of captains could reach it (Jack had snorted into his run at that point and made a mental note to breach Grand Turk in the future, if only to shove that boast back up the frog's arse where it belonged.) There was a lane of deep water hidden amid the shallows and all one had to do was approach from the south and hug the Tail of Shoal until the islands of Brittle's Cay appeared. _Careful now_, L'Olonnois' memory whispered in Jack's mind as he spun the wheel, bare east and swing around Gun Island, momentarily heading north and following the trench like a sling shot back west- straight into the little sheltered cove.

From there, L'Olonnois had boasted of being the only pirate to plunder the rich little island. Apparently, there was a small road that led directly into Cockburn Town on the other side of the island, a near six miles. According to Captain L'Olonnois, it was there where all the well-to-do salt merchants of Salt Cay set up house.

_Salt merchants_, the words sent a thrill of anticipation down Jack's spine. Salt was white gold. A single barrel of salt was worth more than ten casks of rum, may the Devil strike him down for saying so, and Jack would easily wager that the houses of Cockburn Town were as ornate as any King's palace. Salt merchants; his eyes gleamed to imagine the spoils they would yield.

Much to his chagrin, Jack begrudgingly acknowledged that the insufferable Frenchman was right. Only a damn good sailor could follow the narrow route- even as it were, the Pearl butted against the sides of sand barriers more than once, drawing good many a wince from her Captain. It was only with copious amounts of luck and his able-bodied crew that they glided safely into the pitifully small cove with the screeching storm right behind them. But it would do, the land that surrounded them was tall and lush, making a most excellent barrier against the pushing mass of the tempest.

"Lay up!" Jack called out, forsaking the wheel and dashing down the companionway to the main deck. "Lose the canvas! She's coming in hard! " He clamped a tight hand on his hat, dreadlocks fluttering in the air. "Gibbs!"

"Aye, Captain?" the older man called, making his way larboard to Jack.

"Get me a party of men, I want to make landfall before this witch hits."

"Aye, Captain."

"Captain!" Anamaria called, scaling down the rigging deftly, despite the increasing winds. "Small boats at the ready; we're set to launch!"

"Excellent!" He beamed. "I believe it's time to do a bit of shopping. Don't you agree?"

* * *

**06/15/05: **_This chapter has been edited and partially rewritten. _


	3. Chapter 3

Throughout the small community of salt merchants that occupied Grand Turk, Mr. John Hughes was considered to be, by far, the most frugal man of his peerage. He was a plainspoken, religious man of sixty-seven who considered the lavish lifestyle of his contemporaries to be exceedingly sinful and never passed up an opportunity to sniff disdainfully at a neighbor's newly purchased carriage or tapestry. Such blatant displays of wealth were _'atrociously wicked'_, as he delighted in saying. With his miser ways and stern head for business, there were several who thought Mr. Hughes would perhaps be better suited in one of the northern Puritan colonies; but those who spoke of him as such were forgetful of one rather important fact concerning Mr. Hughes: his love for money.

It was good for him that he did live in the lavish Caribbean for such an earthly love would surely result in his exile from any Puritan society- and possibly excommunication as well.

John Hughes loved money. He loved money more than he loved his children (which, regrettably, was not much at all.) He loved money more than he loved his late wife, Anne (God rest her soul.) He even loved money more than he loved the Holy Father. Mr. Hughes was going to spend eternity in Hell and, frankly, he didn't care one bit. Knowing this about him, it should not come to any surprise that his marriage to Anne was wrought purely for profit and not for any misplaced affection. Nor should it surprise any to learn that both of his children's betrothals were more akin to financial contracts then they were matters of the heart. All in all, this was not so bad when one considered that his eldest, Thomas, was a mirror image of John and Blanche possessed virtually no personal conviction at all.

And while it's hard to fathom how any man who loved coin as dearly as Mr. Hughes could possibly be a devout miser, not many could truly say that they knew John Hughes. Indeed, Mr. Hughes possessed a most complex character. For instance: for all his gruff demeanor, many would not have believed that Mr. Hughes was a very vain man- and yet he was, very much so. So great was his vanity, it nearly equaled his greed. A frightful thought indeed.

On the eve of his fortieth birthday, it was discovered that John was developing grey hair. Being the incredibly vain man that he was, Mr. Hughes immediately launched an obsessive mirror purchasing campaign. Big, small, rectangular and oval they cluttered the walls of his bed chamber and it wasn't long before Mr. Hughes instructed them to be hung everywhere within the house, in every room and in every hallway- ultimately allowing John the ability to examine his aging features at will. Why, it was even said that the late Mrs. Hughes died because of those mirrors, having happened upon one in the dead of the night and ultimately frightened herself to death.

It was difficult to avoid one's face in a house filled with mirrors, as Blanche very well knew. Outside of her own bedchambers, there was not a single location in the entire house where she couldn't see her own reflection; and as a result, she had been dissecting her features for as long as she could remember- the mirrors themselves being in place long before her birth. Everywhere she looked, her face was reflected back at her; and around every corner was unavoidable evidence that she was a plain girl. Positively, wholly unremarkable.

When she was younger, Blanche had been thoroughly convinced that the problem lay with her nose, but over the course of the passing years, she had been forced to accept that it was the overall appearance of her features. Long nose, long face, thin lips, lank hair-she meticulously catalogued every feature, gazing wearily at her reflection in the vanity mirror as Hannah, her hand maid, reset her curls for the party. Some girls, though cursed with average features, were blessed with extraordinary eyes - Blanche had seen it herself- but her eyes were just as plain as the rest of her. Some called it blue, others called it grey, her brother insisted on green; but the best description Blanche could invent was a disgusting muddy blue. Too grey to be blue, too much gold to be grey and entirely too much brown to be green.

Sudden laughter from downstairs startled Blanche out of her self-examination with a jerk and she was rewarded for her abrupt movement by a sharp prick against her head as the hair pin Hannah was currently threading into her carefully constructed curls came to a rough stop against her scalp.

"Ow!" she exclaimed, more startled than hurt truthfully.

"Oh!" Hannah exclaimed, eyes wide and clamping her hands over her mouth to stifle her gasp. "I'm so sorry, ma'am!" Her horrified expression might have been comical to any other, but Blanche, accustomed to the girl's constant dramatic reactions, only found it irritating. One would think she had just threatened to decapitate the girl.

"It's of no matter," she said, crossly. Her reflection's scowl elongated her face more than nature intended, which only served to deepen her scowl. "Get on with it, else I'll be late."

"Yes, ma'am," the girl said quickly, properly chastened, her small fingers resuming their task.

While Hannah reversed the destruction wrought by the day's humidity, Blanche toyed with the ring on her left hand. It was a great ugly thing, her troth ring from Edward. In the tradition of all family heirlooms, it was entirely too large and obtrusive for her thin fingers and she had been forced to wrap and length of ribbon about its base in order to prevent the cumbersome piece of jewelry from slipping off entirely. Even still, it had a tendency to roll downwards and snag the delicate fabrics of her skirts. She loathed the ring, an emotion that grew with every passing hour. She often wondered if her uneasiness with Edward was, in fact, a by product of her hatred of the ring. Or was it the other way around? As a consequence of the heat swelling her fingers to a near unnatural measure, Blanche had forgone the wrapping that morning before her brother's wedding ceremony and now the ring twisted and turned on her finger easily as she absently played with it.

"There you go, ma'am," Hannah said at last, standing back to admire her work.

Blanche and her reflection blinked simultaneously. The change was remarkable. Her dark hair was once more beautifully arranged into high curls whose ends coiled demurely about the base of her neck. It almost made her look pretty. Almost.

"Thank you, Hannah," she said, pushing back the stool and rising to her feet. "It looks lovely."

Hannah smiled and blushed delicately at the comment as she retrieved the newly pressed pink gown from the bed. "Why thank you, ma'am," she said, carefully picking up the delicate fabric.

Hannah was a pretty girl. In fact, she was everything Blanche secretly wished she could be. Small boned and delicate with clear eyes as blue as the Caribbean Sea and a delightfully generous bosom, it was a shame such a woman was born common. Her own chest, Blanche reflected, glancing down as Hannah helped her step into the dress, was pitifully small. She might as well have been born a man, she mused, frowning at her reflection.

"Is something wrong, ma'am?" Hannah asked, noting Blanche's expression. "Would you prefer the green silk?"

Blanche shook her head and gestured for the girl to do up the fastenings. "No," she said, "I should think my father would disapprove if I changed my attire."

Hannah hid a smile, but Blanche caught the fleeting quirking of her lips. "Why do you smile?" she demanded, frowning.

The girl blushed for the second time. "No offense meant, ma'am," she said quickly, securing the line of tiny pearl buttons with deft hands. "It's just that Mrs. Brown changed her dress near five times a day." Mrs. Brown had been Hannah's last employer and when she had passed, Mr. Hughes was quick to snap up such an able ladies maid. Or, at least, that was what Blanche preferred to believe- it was certainly better than the alternative. The girl continued, ticking off the occasions that had merited a change on her small fingers. "Morning, Luncheon, Afternoon Tea, Dinner and evening."

Blanche sniffed in disapproval and turned back to the mirror, smoothing her hands over the pale fabric. "Such actions are frivolous," she said sternly, staring at her reflection, "and sinful in the eyes of Our Lord."

"Sorry, ma'am," Hannah said apologetically. "I meant no disrespect."

Her expression was mournful that Blanche made move to say something kind to soften her words, but the approaching storm took that moment to blow open the shutters of Blanche's chamber window. At the sudden burst of noise and movement, Blanche gasped and jumped backwards, her hand fluttering over her lips. Behind her, Hannah shrieked loudly and clutched at Blanche's newly pressed silk skirt.

The long drapes, urged by the strengthening winds, were blown inwards and waved in the wind. They seemed to reach for Blanche, beckoning like seeking fingers, while the wooden shutters banged angrily against the house. The whole effect was quite dramatic and Blanche stood, transfixed with eyes wide like a startled doe. She absentmindedly noted that the room suddenly smelt of the sea and flowers from the garden below. It was a contradictory feeling, for it both calmed and invigorated her. She felt as if someone had… well, she couldn't quite place the sensation; but inside, her spirit soared inexplicably.

Hannah, having regained her sense sooner than her mistress, darted forward, fighting against the flickering curtains and closed the shutters quickly. "Oh my," she said, after finally securing the latch. "It's going to be a bad one tonight."

"I know," Blanche said, swallowing against the tide of apprehension that swept over her. "I saw it approaching earlier."

Outside the wind howled and the rain began, at first light and hesitant but soon developing into a heavy downpour, the force of which caused the shutters to shudder ominously. Hannah frowned at the window, as if expecting it to burst open again. "You best be going, ma'am," she said authoritatively. "You wouldn't want to miss the party."

"Yes," Blanche murmured to herself, heading for the door, "we wouldn't want that, now would we?"

Downstairs was all aglow and filled with only the best of society, but scarce a soul paid her mind as she descended the stairs. It was just as well, since Blanche found herself in a sullen frame of mind. She did not understand why, but the suddenness of the storm blackened her mood and now she dreaded polite conversation. Her upbringing, however, overruled all and she mutely threaded her way through the crowd to Edward's side. Her fiancé spared her a brief, approving glance before returning to his conversation with Major Kensington and his aloofness, though hardly surprising, left Blanche feeling oddly adrift. Perhaps she should have feigned a headache and stayed upstairs.

Briefly, she surveyed the room. Her father was speaking with Cornel Norton and her brother to Mr. Thompson. Captain Howe was talking pleasantly to Widow Foster- no, wait- that was widow's younger brother, Mr. Foster. It was hard to tell the difference sometimes, the two looked so much alike. She scanned the room, looking for the older woman, but was surprised to see her absent. Wasn't that odd- Widow Foster rarely missed an occasion to mingle with society. Blanche frowned, confused. Upon closer inspection, it became obvious that nearly everyone present was male. How _very_ odd. She wondered what had become of the women.

"Miss Hughes," a pleasant voice at her elbow said. "It's a pleasure to see you again."

She turned and the smile withered on her lips at the sight of Mr. Hawkes. In Blanche's humble opinion, Jonathan Hawkes was a vile, vile man who insisted on treating her disrespectfully. It had been no secret that the local plantation owner had wished to marry her, and while Edward might be disagreeable, he was nothing like Mr. Hawkes. Luckily for her, her father disliked Jonathan nearly as much as she; else Blanche feared her betrothal might have developed quite a bit differently.

"Mr. Hawkes," she said politely, forcing the smile to reappear, "how are you? Well I hope."

The words were no sooner out of her mouth when a great _crack_ rent the air, causing her jump nervously. At first, Blanche didn't know what had just occurred, but the booming thunder that sounded immediately after another lightning strike made it obvious. Jonathan laughed snidely at her reaction.

"Don't worry, _my dear_," he said with a feline smile. "It's only the storm. Surely you're not afraid of a little lightning?"

She clenched her jaw. "No, of course not, Mr. Hawkes. It merely startled me." Silently, she began to plead with Edward, begging him to take notice of their conversation and come to her rescue. Edward was clearly not susceptible to her mental voice. However, it seemed that Jonathan was.

"It's no use, _dear_ Miss Hughes," he said softly, taking her elbow and leading her away from the figure of her fiancé. "He'll never notice. You're engaged to a most unamusing fellow."

Blanche bit her lip and stared at her reflection in a mirror as he dragged her past. How pale and drawn she looked. She dared not struggle against his grip and she risked insulting him should she resist his physical contact. Vile man, or no- he was still an influential member of Grand Turk society and her father would hang her if she behaved inappropriately. God help her, she was trapped well and good.

He led her out of the room and to the garden door, well into the shadows. "Now tell me, Blanche dear," he said, and her spine stiffened at the use of her Christian name, "how goes the engagement?" Outside, the storm raged on, louder by the doors than it had been in the drawing room.

"Just fine, thank you, _Mr. Hawkes_," she said pointedly.

He chuckled. "Now, now- we're much too good of friends to use such formal titles, don't you think?" When Blanche remained silent, he laughed again. "Come now, Blanche, you don't want to anger me." From years of suffering through his loathsome company, Blanche was used to his strong-arm tactics and offered him a tiny, reluctant smile- one he returned it in kind. Concession was the only available option.

Abruptly, down the hall the front door burst open to reveal the drenched figure of Richard Blethers, saving her from further conversation with the Mr. Hawkes. Richard's sudden appearance also drew the attention of those present and they flooded into the hallway. "The church!" he said, breathlessly. "It's burning!"

A rush of cold shock ran the length of her spine, chilling her to the bone, and she broke free of Jonathan's grip, moving forward, drawn to tragedy like any other. The words apparently had a similar effect on the men as they all starting agitatedly speaking at once. It was pandemonium for a moment and Blanche had to elbow her way forward, but then her father strode through their mass purposely, his grey eyes stern and lips set in a thin line.

"Well, don't just stand there," he said, shouting over their voices to be heard, thumping his heavy walking stick against the tiled flooring. "Hop to it!"

It was amazing the effect his words had on the men. Before Blanche could blink they immediately calmed themselves and ordered their coats to be brought. Edward, spying her presence, drew her aside.

"What are you doing here, Blanche?" he asked.

"I was curious," she answered truthfully, already knowing his response.

She was not disappointed. "You shouldn't be here, you'll only be underfoot," he said, looking at her sternly, "You should know better."

"I'm sorry," Blanche said softly. "It won't happen again."

"I should hope not. Any wife of mine should know her place."

She could do nothing but nod in agreement and then he was gone from her side. She watched as he shrugged into his coat and joined the other men as they trooped out the door, intent on rescuing the burning church. Moments later, she stood alone in the silent foyer. It was as if they had never been there.

Outside lightning flashed and thunder rumbled darkly across the darkening sky. The heavy rain continued to fall steadily.

And the pirates were very, very wet.


	4. Chapter 4

Being the worldly man that he was, there was rare occasion for _'firsts'_ in Jack Sparrow's life. It was a by-product of the pirating profession, he supposed, though nay be it for him to complain. There was a certain charm with having seen everything once, and on some occasions, twice. And while such experiences may not make a man wise, they sure as hell lent him sense- not to mention a solution for virtually every possible crisis. Jack was sure he was one of only a dozen souls who knew the proper procedure of retrieving a goat down from a banana tree. It was similar odd notes of information that Jack prided himself on. _Come to ol' Jack and he'll know what to do, _he liked to tell the lasses, right before he charmed them up the stairs to bed.

So, taking into account all he had been witness to throughout this life, it was a rare day indeed to have the pleasure of seeing something new. That is why, when the small party of pirates found the small town to be virtually uninhabited, Jack allowed himself a moment to savor the occasion. He didn't know why the streets were empty, nor did he know how most all the houses came to be dark; but he wasn't about to question their stroke of luck. It would seem that fortune favored him still- he would have to remember to thank her later.

But that was in the future, and at present Jack found himself over laden with plunder; a most agreeable inconvenience- but an inconvenience none the less. _'More gold than you can carry'_ generally represented every pirate's fantasy, and sent many a shiver down many a spine, but current circumstances were certainly less than desirable. For one: he was soaked to the skin. For another: night was rapidly approaching. And lastly (though Jack was averse to admit it): they had relieved the townsfolk of simply too many items. Specifically, more than a simple wagon load.

"Well, can't we just pile it all in anyway?" he asked, taking off his tricorn and scratching his head absentmindedly.

From his seat in the front of the wagon, John Throne shook his head. " 'fraid not, Captain," he said. "That road was muddy as all hell when we came through and it sure as spit hasn't gotten any drier." He scowled at the relentless rain before continuing. "Her wheels will sink right through and then we'll have a devil of a time getting her back out again."

The small band of pirates were currently gathered around their newly stolen wagon, all looking annoyed at the prospect of leaving a goodly lot of their spoils behind. Jack frowned and tilted his head against the rain, pondering their sudden turn of misfortune. He too disliked the notion of leaving behind such a large lot of plunder. There was a pile of silks he had grown especially fond of that he would hate to see remain.

"Well now," Jack mused. "That _is_ a problem. It's not we can just knock on the door and give it back, now can we? _I'm sorry, m'lord,_" he mocked, clasping his hands before him in the very image of heartfelt repentance, "_but me lads and I find ourselves suddenly overburdened, so we are humbly returning all your precious knick-knacks and such_." He bent forward in a flourishing bow, "_Do forgive- frightfully sorry for the inconvenience._" Jack straightened and raised an eyebrow, addressing his men once more. "I, for one, suggest we keep it," he said with an amused glint. "Bugger the rich sods."

"I saw another wagon back yonder, Captain," young Oliver volunteered hesitantly, vaguely motioning behind him with a dirty thumb. "I could nick back for it."

Jack plopped his hat back onto his head and grinned at the boy, gold teeth glinting in dwindling light. "Good lad," he said, patting Oliver fondly on the shoulder. "That settles it. We'll commandeer another cart in the name of all that is good and gold-"

"Begging your pardon, Captain," John interrupted, his tone contrite and respectful, "but what should we be doin' with this load? One wagon is conspicuous enough, but two?" he shook his head. "It'd be mighty risky."

"Right you are," Jack said, nodding, already one step ahead of him. "You lot take it back to the Pearl and unload. The boy and I will stay and load the rest of the swag into the other wagon."

"Dog an' I'll stay with ye', Captain," Charles Adams offered, scratching at his ginger sideburns. "Ye'll need some extra hands if mud mucks up the spokes." Beside him, the tautly muscled Dog nodded mutely in agreement, his scarred face grossly distorted in the growing shadows.

"Thank you, lads- that's mighty considerate of you," Jack said, shaking his coat free of rain water and looking very much like a wet dog at that moment. "Right then," he said with a firm nod to the men, once he was satisfied with his appearance, "let's get to it. The sooner we get this done, the quicker we can get out of this bleedin' monsoon."

John nodded and snapped the reins, starling the poor sodden horse that had conveniently been attached to the cart into movement. The rest of the looting party followed closely behind the cart, wary of watching eyes. The retreating wagon was a beautiful sight to Jack's eyes- just knowing the destination of such wealth put a pleasant warmth into his black little heart. And to think, those very same items had lain unappreciated in some tolly's foyer not an hour earlier.

As a general rule, Jack never felt remorse when he robbed townsfolk- pity perhaps, but never remorse. If they were fool enough to leave their personal affects unguarded, then they rightly deserved it. _Divine retribution_- it had a nice ring to it. Jack liked to believe the Almighty had put him on earth for a single purpose. And if that purpose was relieving sinning half-wits of their possession, who was he to gainsay the Holy Father's motives? Someone had to worship the golden idols and Jack was just the man to do it.

Only an extremely self-confident man would claim to have divine purpose. Well, only or an extremely self-confident man or a madman. Or a priest; and if there was anything on this earth that Jack Sparrow _wasn't_, it was a priest- though he did impersonate one once (good times, that.) Nay, Jack was perhaps the furthest thing from a priest. It wasn't that Jack liked his women, his ale and his gold too much to trade pirating for the cloth; it was the duplicitous, meek nature of the clergy that Jack couldn't stand. Indeed, he hadn't met a 'Father' yet that didn't have an unsatisfiable thirst for a good wench, wine and coin. And while Jack appreciated the sneakiness of the church, being the good pirate that he was, sometimes too much was simply too much. Besides, he didn't have the patience to do all that playacting. Sometimes a body just wanted the satisfaction of belching in a crowded pub with a curvy lass warming his lap.

But, back to the point at hand, Jack Sparrow was as self-confident and mad as men come. After all, he was Captain Jack Sparrow. 'Cocksure' and 'eccentric' were practically included in the title. It wasn't that Jack was a vain man- though truth be told, he supposed he was rather vain, so that tended to be unsupportive to such arguments- Jack merely preferred to think of himself as individualistically cavalier. He did what he did with an unorthodox, carefree attitude and things just tended to go his way. He couldn't help it; it just came with the territory of being Jack Sparrow. And Jack wouldn't have it any other way.

Make that, _Captain_ Jack Sparrow. No, wait- how did young William put it a few years back? Ah, yes, the _infamous_ Captain Jack Sparrow. Sounds much better, grand even. God bless the lad for suggesting it.

As the wagon disappeared into the growing twilight, a peculiar noise caught his attention amidst the steady sound of rainfall. It was a sound that he hadn't heard in nearly eight months and it brought a genuine smile to his dirty face.

"I'll go and get that cart, Captain," Oliver said, wiping at the rainwater as it dripped into his eyes.

"Take Dog with you," Jack said absently, his eyes and ears intent elsewhere. "If you get into trouble just… well- Dog'll get you out of it."

"Aye, Captain."

Now where was that noise? Ah, there it was. Jack squatted on his heels and inched his way forward stealthily, looking quite ridiculous to be sure. With or without the addition of the steady downpour.

Charles watched his captain silently. Despite having been a member of Jack's crew for over four seasons now, his captain's actions never failed to surprise him. But Captain never did anything without reason, even if his reasons were slightly warped from all the time spent at sea. As Jack slowly moved farther and farther away, Charles Adams shifted his feet restlessly. He felt compelled to follow- God knows what kind of trouble Captain gets into when left to his own devices- but at the same time knew that he shouldn't leave the pile of plunder that lay neglected on the cobblestones. What if someone came by and decided to help themselves? No, he wouldn't leave, but he felt mighty apprehensive as he watched the figure of Jack slowly disappear into the rain and darkness. Blast all. Charles hoped high hell that Dog and the lad would get back soon.

Jack's prey was clever, never allowing him to get near enough but always remaining tantalizingly within reach. But Jack was determined to persevere, moving stealthily while his coattails dragged on the stones and the rain gathered in his hat. He could feel it building and sloshing about as he inched his way forward down the dark alleyway.

Using the one hand brace himself against the side of a building, Jack stretch the other out pleadingly. "Come on, friend," he said softly, lest a loud tone frighten away his quarry, beckoning with long, grimy fingers. "Come to ol' Jack."

The rooster eyed him warily, right not to trust such an insincere character, and stepped gingerly away, ruffling its wet feathers.

Jack was not deterred. He followed smoothly, hand still outstretched. "Easy there," he crooned, moving a bit too close for the bird's comfort. It squawked irritably and hopped forward.

"Now, don't do that," he scolded. "I don't want no trouble for the likes of you- hazza!" Jack exclaimed, suddenly lunging for the rooster. It didn't take kindly to his actions, however, and burst into flight, just barely escaping his grasp and leaving Jack sprawled ungracefully in a mud puddle.

Cursing, he stood up and glared at his would-be-dinner. "So it's going to be like that, eh?" he asked, glowering. From its safe position atop a low stone wall, the very wet rooster ignored him, shaking the rainwater from its feathers once more.

"It's no use," Jack said with a feline grin, carefully climbing onto a barrel. "You're never going to get away from me- I'm a dogged old fool." The rooster gave Jack the evil eye and turned away, pecking curiously at the wall top and seemingly bored of the pirate's confidence.

With a war-whoop, Jack lunged at the bird once more, this time grabbing a handful of tail feathers, much to the rooster's vocal disproval. But Jack had overestimated the strength and speed needed to trap his dinner. With an undignified grunt and an outraged squawk, Jack and the bird went over the wall in a flurry of feathers and curses- landing with an _oomph_ in the middle of some god-forsaken jungle of sorts.

Either the short fall or the surprise at falling (Jack wasn't sure which,) knocked the breath from his lungs in a loud rush and the rooster, being unusually opportunistic for a bird, took the opening to make a quick get-away. "Not so fast there," Jack said, coughing and hastily grabbing hold of the poor fowl's tail feathers again. He quickly transferred his grip to the rooster's legs when the wet feathers near slipped from his fingers. Ignoring the bird's screams of bloody murder, Jack untangled his boots from the thick foliage and stood, knocking his hat off in the process. Grumbling and with chicken still en hand, Jack carefully bent and retrieved his faithful trihorn. It was as he was bent over that he first noticed the lights from the window.

"Well, what do we have here?" he asked to no one in particular.

Stumbling free of the opposing foliage proved to reveal the brightly lit window to belong to a brightly lit house and the 'jungle' Jack had fallen into was revealed to be a a rich man's garden. Never one to miss an opportunity to increase his reputation, Jack slapped his hat on his head with a grin and ambled toward the double glass doors. Locked doubled glass doors as he soon discovered, tugging at the handles ineffectively.

Pulling his pistol from his belt, he knocked the barrel against a glass plane politely. Let it never be said that Jack Sparrow was impolite whilst faced with proper company. When the doors opened a minute later, he smiled amiably and pointed the gun at the confused middle-aged woman, who, if her portly middle and plain clothing were any indication, was surely the housekeeper of the fine house.

"Begging your pardon," he said in a friendly tone that contradicted the physicality of his weapon, "do you mind if I come in? It's raining, and, as you can see, I'm rather wet."

And with that, he shoved the furious rooster in her face and let it do all the work for him.

* * *

**A Series of Brief Confessions:**

Getting into Jack Sparrow's head is a tiresome experience. His thoughts bounce off one another at an alarming speed and, as this particular chapter was an attempt to view the world from Jack's POV, it reflects that. Some ideas that were intended to be single lines, turned into paragraphs, and others that were meant to be paragraphs, wrote only as one or two sentences. I'm not entirely happy with the way this turned out either (the mocking bit especially seems forced to me); and if anyone has any suggestions on the matter, I'd be more than grateful.

And _Oh My! _ What short chapters these are! A change for me, and an unsettling one at that- especially when compared to my ten-page minimum rule; but, I'm trying something different than my normal routine. Sometimes it feels rushed and I want to lengthen the story out, but I'm trying to remain firm. Perhaps later, after this is done, I'll go back and fill the chapters out.


End file.
